Ontreto

by Peter Crawley

  He shakes his head and rubs his face in frustration. All he knows for certain is that, with the Mara as good as impounded, there is nothing he can do to hasten his departure; that Valeria is very possibly related to Marcello; and that Marcello’s brother, Claudio, lies dead in the dust of the deserted pumice warehouse at Pietra Liscia. Perhaps, he wonders as he tries to climb into a shirt and jeans without troubling his shoulder, it is a more muscular approach to solving the problem that is required.

  He locks the door carefully behind him, considers taking the key with him rather than leaving it beneath the pot where others can get to it, but realises that apart from the few Euros in his pocket, he has nothing left worth stealing.

  The brioche from the pasticceria and the sharp air of morning go some way to improving his mood as he strolls down the Via Roma to the Corta.

  Sandro is plying his trade, but when he spots Ric he looks away and pretends he hasn’t seen him.

  Giuliana, too, tries her best to pretend the same, but she doesn’t make such a convincing job of it.

  Ric walks over to the café and pulls out a chair.

  The pinch-faced owner, sitting at the back, mutters something to Giuliana before she has no choice other than to serve Ric.

  “Salve, Ric,” she greets, nervously.

  “Buongiorno, Giuliana, un caffè espresso, per favore.”

  She hesitates, before replying, “Scusate, Ric, siamo chiusi.”

  Ric makes a play of looking round at the few tourists taking their breakfast and repeats, “Un caffè espresso, per favore, Giuliana. Grazie.”

  She hesitates again, glancing to look for guidance from the owner.

  Giuliana turns her back so that the owner cannot read her lips. “Ric, per favore,” she pleads. Her half-hearted attempt at a smile touches a nerve in him; if she had her way, there is no doubt Giuliana would bring his coffee right away, but he would be doing her a considerable favour if he would leave without further fuss.

  But Ric is not to be got rid of quite so easily. He pushes back his chair, stands up and looks past Giuliana and fixes the owner with an uncompromising glare.

  The owner stares back, impassively.

  “I’ll take a coffee, please,” Ric states more than asks.

  The eye contact between them is direct and provocative; the man’s face a picture of contempt. Eventually, the owner shifts his gaze back to the nervous girl and nods very slowly.

  “Grazie, Giuliana.” Ric sits back down.

  When she returns, she places the espresso before him and he notices her hand is shaking.

  “Molto gentile,” he says softly.

  The harbour is peaceful; fishermen are cleaning down their smacks and a few tourists are craning their necks to look up at the citadel looming over the square. Sandro sneaks a look at him every now and then.

  Ric finishes his coffee and attracts Giuliana’s attention, “Il Conto, per favore?”

  She sidles up to his table, but does not remove her hands from her apron. “Today, the coffee is free,” she whispers.

  “Grazie, Giuliana. Buona giornata.” He stands up and looks over at the owner, who is still seated at the back, smoking a cigarette.

  Ric nods. The owner inclines his head a fraction, but does not offer any kind of smile.

  Before he walks up out of the square, he calls across to the escurzionista who persists in pretending he is not watching Ric, “Hey, Sandro, thought I’d pop up to Canneto, I need a couple of things for the boat and I gather there’s a good negozio di ferramenta Marcello’s brother runs. See you later.”

  The Garibaldi, too, is peaceful; a handful of tourists browse the knick-knacks on display and measure themselves against t-shirts and skirts. When he acknowledges them, the dark-skinned women grin, exposing their super-white teeth. In the Corso Vittorio the shopkeepers are laying out their wares: ceramic dishes decorated with images of blazing suns, fist-sized sculpted effigies of Roman gods, and postcard racks and newspaper stands. Valeria is absent.

  The Carabinieri have given up their identity checks amongst the crowd on the pier; whoever they were looking for is long gone. An Aliscafo has just tied up; those passengers disembarking fight their way through those jostling to be first on to secure a seat.

  The bus to Canneto takes no more than a few minutes and when it grinds noisily to a halt on the front, Ric takes a seat in the café he was introduced to by Marcello a couple of days before. If the portly waiter remembers him, he does not show it; the sorry-looking hound ignores him.

  When his coffee arrives, Ric asks the location of the negozio di ferramenta Maggiore. The waiter waves him away along the front.

  To the south the small desalination plant is overshadowed by the twin summits of Monte Rosa and, breaking the horizon to the north east, the cone-shaped volcano of Stromboli coughs a single plume of white smoke. Lazy dust devils dance up the road, each one burst by scooters that weave, whine and buzz, and clouds of exhaust gas issue from the grocery truck, forcing shopkeepers to cover their mouths.

  The village which fronts the crescent bay holds one road up, along the front, and one road back a few houses behind. He locates the Ferramenta Maggiore on the corner at the northern end, where the two roads meet.

  From the outside it looks exactly as he expects. Brooms, brushes, acro jacks, props and assorted scaffolding lean like tall, thin men waiting for a bus. There is a yard down the side where men in brick-dusted vests and shorts are loading an Ape with sand and cement.

  Ric wanders inside; the air-conditioning chills and a radio blares a lively phone-in. A woman is busy burying her face in a fashion magazine.

  “Claudio Maggiore, per favore?” he asks her.

  She drags herself away from the magazine and tips her horn-rimmed spectacles back up her nose, “No, non è qui.” She waits for a reply.

  “Più tardi? Will he be in later?”

  “No, non vieni oggi.” She doesn’t really look at him; she just looks vaguely in his direction, hoping he will be going soon.

  “Domani?”

  She shrugs, “No, è in vacanza.”

  “Of course,” he mutters beneath his breath, “a very long holiday.”

  It occurs to her to slide a notepad and pen across the counter to him, “Vuole lasciare un messaggio, eh?”

  “No, grazie,” he replies and turns to leave.

  Just as he gets to the door, a black saloon car pulls up outside. The wiry Salvo is driving, but it is Marcello who gets out. He does not realise Ric is watching him and his body language suggests he is agitated. But when he gets to the door and sees Ric, he calms.

  Ric walks over and holds the door open for him to enter.

  “Buongiorno, Ric,” he says, scowling. “You want something from the shop? First, you come to my yard without telling me. Now you come to my shop. If you need something, you must tell me and I get it for you.”

  “Hi, Marcello. You look a little flustered; not trouble with the Mara, I hope? How’s she doing?”

  Marcello flicks the butt-end of his cigar into the gutter. “No, no problem with the Mara; she is in reasonable shape. Her motor will be fixed by tomorrow afternoon; the propeller shaft the next day. But I cannot put her back in the water until the little cockerel comes to me and gives me permission. You know this, eh? Now, what brings you to my store?”

  “Oh, I was reading about the new desalination plant and it set me to think that I needed to do something about that dripping tap in the kitchen back at the house. Didn’t feel right letting that tap drip all day, what with water being so short in the high season. And, seeing as you’ve been so generous in letting me stay in the house while you’re fixing the Mara, I thought I’d repay your kindness by fixing the tap.”

  Marcello grunts, “There is a ferramenta in the Corso Vittorio. Why come to Canneto?”

  Ric smiles. “Didn’t think about it until I was sitting in the café round the corner. Valeria said your brother had a ferramenta here and the waiter at the café told me where i
t was; thought I’d pick up some tape while I remembered.”

  He grunts again, “If you want some tape, I will give it to you.” He pushes past Ric and waves for him to follow. “But you will need a wrench; this I can give you also.”

  Marcello walks up to the counter and barks at the girl, who quickly slides her magazine below the counter.

  She skulks away to the back of the shop and returns with a roll of pipe repair tape and an adjustable wrench, both of which she hands over to Ric.

  “Grazie,” he says to the girl. “Thank you, Marcello. Nice place your brother has here; must be a good business. I don’t think I’ve met your brother,” he lies, “I gather he’s on holiday.”

  Marcello straightens, but disregards Ric’s mention of his brother. “Okay, now I am going back. You want a lift?”

  “Thanks for the offer, but haven’t you got business here or were you just calling by?”

  Marcello doesn’t appreciate the inference that he has arrived merely to check up on what Ric is up to, “You think you know what I am doing better than I do?”

  “That’s not what I meant, Marcello. I simply thought that, bumping into you like this, I may have distracted you from what you were doing; that’s all. Wouldn’t want to get the blame for getting in the way of important business.” He studies the bull of a man, looking to see whether he shares any facial resemblance with Valeria and wondering if there is the slightest chance the man might be her cousin.

  Marcello, realising he is being studied, eyes Ric back suspiciously. “No, you will not get in my way; important or not. Now, I have to be going. I ask again, do you want a lift?”

  “No thanks,” Ric replies. “I might take a walk on up to Porticello; see what’s about. Explore the old warehouses and pumice mines. Old Nino was telling me about them; they sound fascinating. You could hide an army up there.”

  And Ric is not certain, but he thinks he sees a hardening of Marcello’s expression when he mentions the warehouses.

  “Well, be careful in those places; the floors and ceilings are broken and you can fall and hurt yourself. They are not safe and many people have been injured when their curiosity is not contained.” He squares up a bit, his posture perhaps a little aggressive. But he reconsiders for a second, pouting. “And there is nothing to see. Even the ghosts have lost interest in such places. Okay, I must go.” He reaches across the counter and takes a plastic bag, which he hands to Ric. “Put this wrench in the bag. You are too clean to be idraulico and walking around with this in your hands will make people think you are looking to do someone harm.” He glares at him and ushers him to the door. “Be careful, eh, Ric! Ciao.”

  Marcello throws the girl a stern glance, turns and marches out of the shop.

  As Marcello’s car speeds away up the street, the girl frowns at Ric, mystified as to what has just passed between the two men.

  48

  The wrench is heavy in his hand and lends Ric a certain comfort. He doesn’t need to go up to Pietra Liscia to know what is already hidden there, so he walks down to the front, where he orders a beer in a beachfront café and waits for the bus.

  Once back in Lipari, he strolls up the Corso Vittorio. The benevolent godfather of the citadel watches over a tall, short-haired dog, its long tongue lolling as it patrols the cobbled street like an unofficial traffic warden. It pauses briefly by each of the pavement cafés to observe the customers and then, when it is doubly satisfied there are no new faces who might throw it a morsel, the leggy mongrel snaps at a fly and strolls on.

  The peace of the Corso is broken by the buzz from a helicopter, which flashes across the rooftops and settles somewhere at the back of the town. In spite of the midday heat, the air in the vicos is cool. Nobody, as far as he can tell, is following him.

  He bends to retrieve the key from beneath the pot, but it is not where he left it.

  Ric turns quickly, but both ends of the vico are silent and deserted. Gripping the wrench in his right hand, he turns the handle and eases the door open, stepping back in case whoever it is inside rushes at him.

  Nothing and no one stirs. He pulls the door back a little further, pauses, then steps inside.

  Seated at his kitchen table is Commissario Talaia. He is wearing a blindingly bright white shirt and the jacket of his dark suit hangs over the back of his chair, suggesting he has been waiting a while. There is an old leather briefcase by his seat and he has a notebook open before him.

  “Ah, Signor Ross, I was hoping you would not be too long. Please excuse this strangely clandestine method by which we meet, but I needed to have a talk with you.” He glances at the wrench: “You were expecting less agreeable company?”

  “Strangely, as you put it, Commissario, I wasn’t expecting any company. But when I find my key is missing, I’m never quite sure who’s going to be here when I walk in.”

  The Commissario picks his Homburg from the table and flicks a speck of dust from its rim. “The key? Yes, I apologise for taking it upon myself to make use of it. To stand around looking like I am about to burgle your rooms would, very naturally, make a policeman feel uncomfortable. Why don’t you come and sit down; this is, after all, your table?”

  Ric removes the wrench and the roll of tape from the bag and lays them on the washboard by the sink. He picks a cup off the rack, fills it with water and drinks.

  “I see your tap is still dripping,” Talaia remarks. “Has not anyone told you that even though this island is surrounded by water, the people here value water as much as they value their insularity?”

  Ric holds up the wrench, waves it and raises his eyebrows.

  “Oh, yes, I see; stupid of me,” Talaia replies.

  Ric sits, slowly. “Can I get you a glass of wine or a beer, Commissario Mr Talaia?”

  The offer elicits a warm genial smile from the little man. “Unofficially, I can see no reason why I should refuse your offer; a cold beer would be most welcome. But, sadly, officially I cannot.”

  “A plate of antipasti?”

  Talaia grins. “Such hospitality is truly most welcome, but if I drank wine and ate antipasti with everyone I interviewed, I would be obese as well as short and to be short is perhaps enough of a challenge, so no. But, thank you.”

  “Coffee, then?”

  The little Commissioner shrugs, “Please.”

  Ric makes the coffee and sets it before them. “Last evening I was walking back from a friend’s house, but, rather than take the Maddalena and have you think I was stopping by the Piazza San Bartolo for a gloat, I walked round by San Nicola. I hope you didn’t wait too long?”

  Talaia shakes his head and tut-tuts, playfully, “This word gloat: I like it, I really do. It is so expressive. I must try it when next I meet with enough success to justify myself such a bourgeois reward. But last night I was not in Lipari, I was in Palermo finding out some more information about Signor Candela and what he has been doing before he came here.”

  “Did you find out what you wanted to know?” Ric asks.

  He wobbles his head and purses his lips. “That is for me to know, one might say.”

  “So to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Well, Signor Ross–”

  “Look, Commissioner, if we are going to keep meeting like this, perhaps you ought to call me Ric.”

  Talaia raises a small slender hand, “Okay, why not? Please call me Maso, except in company; then perhaps it would be better to be formal.”

  “Works for me, Maso. You obviously want some information from me, what would you like to know?”

  “Please, refresh my memory about where you were the evening Signor Candela was shot.” He takes a pen from his jacket pocket, flattens a page of his notebook and expects.

  “As I think I told you, I was out fishing for squid with Marcello Maggiore. And, as you already know because he tells me you have been to see him and unofficially impounded the Mara, he has my boat in his yard at Canneto. In these parts they seem to know him as Il Velaccino.”

&
nbsp; “Ah, yes, the sailmaker,” Talaia replies, writing the name in his book, “I have heard people talk of him by this name. I don’t understand why they refer to him in this way, especially when his business interests extend far beyond those of the average sailmaker, do you?”

  “Beats me, Maso! Perhaps he just likes making sails.”

  Talaia sips his coffee, winces and reaches across the table for the sugar. “So, Ric, tell me, you went fishing with Signor Maggiore?”

  “As I said, we went fishing, we caught some totani and got run down by a big blue boat that wasn’t showing any navigation lights.” Ric lowers his head towards Talaia and fixes him with a knowing look. “I was knocked overboard,” he makes to tap at his forehead, “and Signor Maggiore’s boat was sinking so he couldn’t hang around to pick me up. I swam ashore from about a mile out, walked to the Corta, drank a couple of grappa and that’s the end of it.” Ric spreads his arms, “Simple as that.”

  The policeman sips and mulls over the flavour of the coffee. He purses his lips and then smacks them quietly: “Not bad, Signor Ross.”

  “My alibi or the coffee?”

  “Both, except the coffee, it is plain to see, is in the cup.” He pauses and wipes his mouth on his handkerchief. “Fortunately for you, your alibi has been verified by this man they call Il Velaccino.”

  “Funny that, I had a feeling it might not be.”

  Talaia is surprised and writes this down, “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Not sure; just a feeling in my bones.”

  “At this time, we have no reason to doubt Signor Maggiore. But it is interesting to me that you have your doubts. Are you not living in a monolocale that is the property of Signor Maggiore?”

  “Mm, I am.”

  “Then why would you doubt his generosity?”

  Ric thinks for a moment and changes tack. “There’s an escurzionista who hangs around down in the Corta, goes by the name of Sandro; don’t know his surname; long, curly hair, sloping shoulders. I saw him on the same evening before I met Maggiore at Portinente. He might speak for me.”